I have a friend here who, for privacy sake, I will call Thelma. Thelma is the same age as my mom, really skilled at getting IV’s, talks really fast without the slightest idea that I haven’t a clue what she is saying, and wears a lot of layers. She has a small figure, but a big heart that radiates with warmth, love and a desire to learn. She is also loud and opinionated, incredibly funny and has a smile that stretches from ear-to-ear. Thelma took English in high-school forty-some years ago and enjoys practicing what she remembers and learning more. Every time I teach her something new she takes notes in a very unorganized fashion on some scratch paper or a napkin or whatever is near to write on. I’m thankful she is so good-natured because every time she says words in English, I can’t help but laugh. When I taught her the phrase “have a good day” she said it over and over again, but with her thick accent, it reminded me of the Calvin and Hobbes cartoon where the aliens come and say “haf a gud tay.” Hopefully you know what I’m talking about. It makes me wonder how funny I sound when I try to speak Spanish.
One night I was working shift B (3p-11p) and Thelma was working shift C (11p-7a). When working night shift, the nurses usually come a few hours early to get some sleep before the shift and also to prevent having to walk alone so late at night. At shift change, Thelma stumbles into the nurses station, swaying from side to side, half asleep, and barely maintaining her balance. With her chin to her chest and eyes barely open, she slumps down into a chair. It was time to give report, but the nurse I was working with wasn’t ready yet and Thelma decided that she wanted a massage. This wasn’t completely random because I had been giving massages to one of the patients who was having severe neck pain. Apparently, this patient really liked it and had told the other nurses that I gave good massages. So, with a grin on her face, Thelma scoots her chair up to mine, takes my hand, puts it on her neck and pats it. “Massage please,” she states more than asks. I laugh and start rubbing her neck. In less then a minute she decides it’s not good enough and takes off her jacket. I keep massaging. A few seconds later she unbuttons her thick sweater that was under her jacket (remember I’m in Honduras, barely north of the equator), take’s it off, and lays down across my lap, putting my hand back on her neck. Apparently this still isn’t good enough because then she sit’s back up, and takes off her nurse's jacket that was under her sweater that was under her jacket and then lays back down, replaces my hand on her shoulder and anticipates me to continue. By now we are down to her white polo t-shirt. Every time I start massaging, she says things like “que rico!” and “que bueno!” We are both laughing and I continue to give her a massage for the remainder of report, which I can’t imagine she paid much attention to.
At the end of report she says “wait please” and heads to the supply room. She comes back with a glob of Vaseline in her hand, lay’s face down on a stretcher that is at the nurses station and takes off her last layer. “Keep go-eeng, please” she say’s, laughing at herself but also in complete seriousness. I am so tired and tell her so, but shaking my head and entirely amused with the situation, I take the Vaseline from her hand and begin again. “Que rico!” she exclaims again, her voice muffled in the pillow. As I am massaging my friend, advanced in years and stripped down to her bra in the middle of the nurses station, I picture myself back at Erlanger on the oncology floor and try to imagine something like this happening there. I shake my head and try to stifle my laugh. Nunca en los Estados, I think. Nope, never! Only Thelma, only to me, and only in Honduras!
